She has only one friend left there now. One she’s thought about an absurd amount lately, and who she can’t seem to avoid, even if she wanted to. It must be more than a coincidence.
George. Is she really going to contact George Lööw again?
A little flutter somewhere in her stomach, a little buzz in her ears. How is it possible for an arsehole like George Lööw to cause these feelings inside her? Someone who’s all surface and talk and quick success.
Or maybe he’s more than that? He did save her life. And last summer, when they met, she saw another side of him, a calm behind the expensive shirts and the jargon.
She walks over to the window, takes another gulp of cold wine, and lets her eyes wander down to the yellow shine on the street below. She almost drops her glass on the floor. Just a little bit down the street she sees a man in a doorway sheltering from the snow. Maybe it’s a coincidence, someone out for a late-night walk surprised by the intensity of the snow, waiting for it to let up. But somehow, she knows that’s not the case. Her hand trembles slightly as she pours the last of the wine into her glass. She’s sure. Whoever was watching Gabriella has found a new target. And it’s her.
14 November
Beirut
The rain has started falling harder, and Jacob can hear it drumming on the roofs of the cars parked outside.
The question hovers like a cloud above them. He should have asked it a long time ago.
‘They definitely think so,’ Yassim answers evenly. ‘To them, I’m a terrorist.’
The air trembles around them as Jacob turns to Yassim. Myriam’s story is true. There’s no way to deny it any more. He should stand up and just run away, don’t look back, never go back again. But he can’t move.
‘But it’s not black and white, Jacob,’ Yassim continues. ‘A person is many things. And I’m a terrorist in the same way Snowden is a terrorist. In the same way Assange is a terrorist.’
Jacob shakes his head. ‘What do you mean?’ he says. ‘What the hell are you talking about now?’
‘My trips,’ Yassim says. ‘You’re right. I’m not a photographer. Or I am one, but that’s not all. Recently that’s not why I’ve been going to Syria. I’m working on a project compiling information about drone strikes and the West’s other military efforts in Syria and Iraq.’
Yassim pauses, drinks from his can and puts it down again. He puts a hand on Jacob’s shoulder, but Jacob pulls away.
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ he says. ‘What project?’
‘Statements from witnesses,’ Yassim says. ‘Videos, photographs. Any information that might help us map their attacks on civilians and children. To prove who the real terrorists are. I’m close now. We’re close. We’ll soon be handing over the information to someone who can publish it.’
Jacob shakes his head again. The rain sneaks in through a gap in the tarp and a small drop runs down from his head to his cheek. He shivers. ‘Someone is following me,’ he says. ‘A Swedish woman. She calls herself Myriam Awad and works for the Swedish Institute in Alexandria. But she’s a spy.’
‘You’ve spoken with her?’
Jacob stares out into the rain. ‘She showed up a few weeks after our first meeting. She has a video. Of me and a guy I… in one of the bathhouses in Burj Hammoud. It was right after I met you, before I knew whether or not you were coming back. It was a trap, something my boss apparently planned at her request. A guy picked me up and wanted to hook up with me. It was… violent. On the video, it looks like I’m raping him. I’ve never done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve never had sex with strangers…’ He sighs and forces back tears. ‘But I was lonely and confused…’
A cold wind ripples the tarp around them. Jacob looks up and sees deep irritation in Yassim’s eyes.
‘You should have told me,’ he says. ‘This changes things.’
Jacob looks at him, then turns his eyes towards the parking lot. ‘Maybe you should have told me what you’re doing.’
Yassim looks at him and then he just nods silently. ‘It’s not easy, all this.’
‘Myriam has information on you. She says you’re a “lighter”. That you’re planning to carry instructions for a terrorist attack to Europe where some jihadist cells are going to carry it out.’
Yassim looks at him without a hint of surprise. ‘What does she want you to do?’
‘She wants me to tell her when you’re back in Beirut. And she wants me to install some fucking programme on your computer.’
‘So you’ve been watching for my password… that’s how you got into the computer.’
Jacob nods without looking at him, still staring out at the wet cars in the darkness. ‘She pops up sometimes to remind me if I don’t contact her. When we were in Byblos and someone called you, she was there, at Pepe’s. And sometimes she’s been waiting for me in my apartment.’
Jacob feels a lump in his throat, it’s hard to swallow and he buries his face in his hands.
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ he says. ‘I haven’t told her anything. And I didn’t do anything to your computer tonight before you woke up. I don’t even know if I would have. But I had to know who you were.’ He sobs, everything is welling up inside him. Stress, frustration. Love. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said something. I should have told you.’
Yassim sighs deeply and shakes his head. ‘You didn’t know. I should have told you who I was, of course. But what I’m doing is dangerous, Jacob. I didn’t want to drag you into it. Not before I knew you better. Mostly for your own sake. I felt I could trust you right from the start.’
Yassim leans in and kisses him lightly near his temple, and Jacob puts his hands on Yassim’s knee.
‘You are so innocent, Jacob,’ he whispers. ‘That’s your strength here, where nobody is innocent. Don’t forget that.’
They sit for a while listening to the rain. They’re alone, apart from the old woman who runs the cafe who’s sitting behind the counter watching reruns of an old Syrian soap. Yassim pushes him away, holds his head in his hands, stares deeply into his eyes. He’s preparing for something, collecting strength to say something.
‘I like you so much, Jacob,’ he says quietly.
And it’s as if the whole cafe with its dirty plastic chairs and bleached and tattered tarp fades away, as if the rain stops and night turns to saga and myth. It’s like that first night in the garden, as if the only real thing is the two of them.
‘I like you,’ Jacob says.
His mouth is dry, but he doesn’t want to free himself to take a drink, doesn’t want Yassim to let go of his face, doesn’t want this to end.
‘You’ll come with me to Europe, promise me,’ Yassim says.
‘Yes,’ he says, nodding his head in Yassim’s hands. ‘Anywhere. I’ll follow you wherever you want.’
‘I have to go back soon,’ Yassim continues. ‘After what you told me… I can’t risk staying here now.’
His voice breaks suddenly, and he has to clear his throat. ‘I can’t risk you either, Jacob. It’s dangerous. They’re dangerous. It’s better if I’m not here.’
Jacob nods, he understands, but feels empty at the thought of Yassim disappearing again.
‘I’ll wait for you in Europe, in Brussels, darling,’ he says and smiles weakly. ‘Don’t be sad.’
‘I’m not sad,’ Jacob says. ‘Not when I know I have you.’
‘You do,’ Yassim says, stroking his cheek. ‘You know you do.’
He finally lets go of Jacob’s face and then takes a drink of his soda. He seems to be preparing himself again. Maybe to say what he tried to say before. It feels solemn; Jacob can feel it in the air, a glimmer of something large, something important.
‘The information we’ve collected…’ he begins. ‘We’ve been immensely careful about it. We don’t save it on computers that are connected to the Internet, we don’t send emails, don’t make calls. We always meet eye to eye, never use any intermediaries.’
&
nbsp; ‘I’ve noticed that,’ Jacob says, smiling cautiously. ‘You just disappear. Even from me.’
Yassim nods. ‘It’s necessary. They see everything. There are no secrets unless you’re very strict and share them only with those you trust.’
Jacob doesn’t look away. Am I one of them now? he thinks. Am I one of the people Yassim trusts?
‘That includes you and me, too,’ Yassim says. ‘I said from the beginning that it’s too dangerous, we have to be ghosts, that you were far too big a risk. But when we met… When we sat there in the garden… every time since then. We’re human – how could we deny ourselves everything?’
‘We can’t,’ Jacob whispers. He runs a hand over Yassim’s stubble, feels him leaning into that hand.
‘I thought we’d been so careful,’ Yassim continues. ‘But they must have been following me from the beginning. And now…’
‘What?’ Jacob whispers.
‘Now I have to disappear again,’ Yassim says. ‘And I have to find a way to get the material out.’
He takes his phone from his pocket and opens The Guardian’s website. Jacob looks at the screen.
Hundreds have been injured in a series of terrorist attacks in Paris, the article reads.
The shock comes in a new wave and he grabs the phone. There were separate terrorist attacks at the French National Arena and in a rock club in central Paris. The situation is unclear and still ongoing. He totally missed it because he was with Yassim and didn’t look at his own phone once during the night.
‘Did you know…’ he begins. ‘Did you know about this?’
Yassim looks at him with those hard, black eyes. ‘She’s really done a number on you, that spy.’ But Yassim turns his face away, as if he can’t meet his eyes, and Jacob sets down his phone and puts his hands on Yassim’s face.
‘I don’t know what to believe,’ he says. ‘I don’t fucking know anything any more.’
‘Of course I’m as disturbed by this as anyone else,’ Yassim says quietly and unambiguously. ‘I saw a news flash about it on my phone earlier, but I didn’t want to ruin our evening. I… didn’t realize how big it was.’
Jacob looks at him again, tears in his eyes. There’s something in Yassim’s eyes now, something else. Something darker and deeper.
‘I can’t explain it now,’ he says. ‘But it’s more important than ever to get this information out of the Middle East now. I don’t trust anyone here. Not in the media or the diplomats. Everyone is a spy here. Everyone has their own agenda, their own angle.’
He falls silent, looks out at the rain. He seems furious, and Jacob would like to ask if it’s the Paris attacks that have upset him, or if it’s something else entirely. At the same time it’s so clear to him now. So obvious what he has to do. He looks at Yassim, at his tired eyes and wavy hair falling onto the hood of his shirt.
‘Give it to me,’ Jacob says calmly.
Yassim turns away from the rain slowly and looks at Jacob with a question in his eyes, as if he hadn’t really heard or understood what Jacob meant. ‘Give what to you?’ he says.
‘What you’ve collected. Give it to me. I can get it out easier. I’m European. The rules are different for me.’
Yassim says nothing, just stares at him, then turns away, shaking his head. ‘I can’t let you do that. It’s too much. Too dangerous. This is not your fight, Jacob. Besides… You’re already marked, because the Swedish intelligence service thinks you’re working for them.’
But Jacob pulls him close and turns his face to look into his eyes. He doesn’t look away for a second. He’s calm now, not shaky or nervous any more.
He sees Myriam’s icy eyes in front of him, her threatening expression. He has never been surer of anything.
‘Don’t you understand?’ he says. ‘That’s the whole point? They think I’m working for them, so they won’t suspect me.’
‘The risk is too big,’ Yassim says. ‘They’ll see through it, believe me.’
‘But I want to do it,’ he says, almost desperate now. ‘After what happened in Paris tonight, it will be impossible for you as a Middle Easterner. Everyone will be checked and treated with suspicion. I mean it, Yassim. I can do it, let me do it.’
Yassim looks down and pulls away.
‘Don’t you trust me?’ Jacob says. ‘You think I’m trying to persuade you because…’
He falls silent because Yassim has turned to him again, placed a gentle hand to his mouth. ‘I trust you,’ he says. ‘If you wanted to fool me, you wouldn’t have seemed so eager.’ He smiles crookedly. ‘They would have coached you better if they wanted you to fool me. It’s not that. I know you’re honest. But you don’t know what you’re getting into. You don’t know what I know…’
‘Just give me the information,’ Jacob says. ‘I’ll bring it for you.’
*
The rain has finally let up as they leave the cafe. Just a fine mist now. It feels like they’re moving in unison, as if their hearts are beating the same rhythm, as if they’re welded together, a single unit, strong as titanium, diamond, tougher than anything.
‘What do we do now?’ Jacob asks.
Yassim takes his hand in his own, presses gently. ‘First we give them what they want,’ he says. ‘You do what Myriam asked and install the programme on my computer. We’ll act normal. Who knows if they’re listening to us?’
‘What?’ Jacob says. ‘I don’t understand.’
Yassim shakes his head. ‘If they contacted you, they’ve certainly bugged the apartment as well.’
Jacob just nods. There’s something about Yassim’s competence and calm that makes him feel so safe, that makes him go along without asking questions.
‘The next time Myriam contacts you, you have to tell her that I caught you, but that you pretended to be convinced that I was a photographer. Promise me that. There can’t be any gaps.’
Jacob nods. ‘But if I install the software, won’t she be able to see the information on your computer?’
Something flashes in Yassim’s eyes. A shadow of implacability. ‘Didn’t I tell you I’m better at hiding my secrets than that?’ he says.
23 November
Stockholm
At some point Klara finally gives up any attempt to fall asleep, and she finds Maria already in the kitchen with Dagens Nyheter open in front of her, a cup of coffee on the table beside it.
‘You’re up early,’ she says, standing up. ‘There’s coffee.’ She pours a cup and hands it to Klara. ‘You don’t look like someone who uses milk,’ she says with a smile.
Klara takes the cup and sits down hesitantly by the table. She shakes her head and can feel it pounding weakly from lack of sleep and yesterday’s wine. ‘No, that’s not my thing.’
Maria sits down and looks at Klara with worry in her eyes. ‘What are you going to do now? You don’t look like you slept much.’
‘I’m going to Brussels,’ she says quietly. ‘But it’s probably best if I don’t say more than that.’ She shivers when she says Brussels. It’s going to take an incredible effort to book those tickets.
Maria suddenly stands up again and goes over to the kitchen cupboard. She takes down a small white jar and puts it on the table in front of her.
‘I went through some difficult times a few years ago,’ she says. ‘And sometimes medication is the only thing that works. Especially if you have to keep going.’
She gives Klara a small, gentle smile.
‘You have to get some sleep,’ she says. ‘And I don’t think I can prevail on you to go to a doctor.’
Klara smiles faintly back and shakes her head. ‘I’m going to help Gabriella,’ she says. ‘That’s the only thing I care about right now.’
‘I understand that,’ Maria says. ‘I’m not saying you should take any of these pills right now. But I can see you’re not feeling good.’ She pushes the bottle over the table towards Klara. ‘This is all I have.’
Klara lifts up the bottle. Flunitrazepam Mylan, she reads
on the label. ‘Rohypnol,’ Maria says with a shrug. ‘Bad reputation, but it works if you need to keep going.’
There’s something so unexpected about the well-to-do lady in her sixties on the other side of the table giving her this bottle of Rohypnol that Klara just has to smile. She meets Maria’s eyes.
‘So I’m headed back to Brussels for an anonymous meeting armed with nothing more than a bottle of roofies,’ she says.
Maria drinks her coffee and shrugs her shoulders. ‘You do what you need to make it through the day,’ she says. ‘But you seem to have come to terms with that.’
*
Right after lunch Klara jumps into a taxi waiting about a block from Gabriella’s front door. Maria’s shown her a way out of the house through the laundry room, which takes you to another door further down the street, so she can slip past anyone who might be following her.
‘Bromma Airport,’ she says to the driver, leaning back in her seat.
The temperature has fallen during the night and the snow drags on. The streets are black and slippery. She looks up at the sunroof, but the sky is such a bright blue and the autumn light so unusually bright that she has to close her eyes.
She turns around and looks out the back window. The street seems empty, but just as the taxi turns the corner, a pair of headlights on a parked Volvo light up, and she flinches. Before she can see if it’s following them, the taxi has turned the corner and the Volvo has disappeared from sight.
Brussels, she thinks with a sigh. She shakes her head to get rid of that suffocating feeling, but it doesn’t help. Her pulse quickens, her temples are pounding, and her breath has become quick and shallow.
‘Is everything okay?’
She opens her eyes and sees the taxi driver’s worried look in the rear-view mirror. She nods as calmly as she can.
‘Didn’t sleep well,’ she manages to get out.
She looks through the rear window trying to avoid the driver’s gaze. They’re driving across Central Bridge and Klara can see the parliament towering up on one side and Norstedts’ blue neon sign on the other.
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